Halloween
by Stand In Girl
Summary: It’s October, and Dean and Sam drive to Massachusetts to check out a series of strange deaths that seem to revolve around the time of year and the spooky holiday just around the corner. Set after AHBL Part II, angsty discussions included.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Halloween

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** It's October, and Dean and Sam drive to Massachusetts to check out a series of strange deaths. But when these deaths seem to revolve around the time of year and the spooky holiday just around the corner, can they figure it out before someone else dies?

**Setting: **Just after All Hell Breaks Loose Parts I and II. For purposes of this story I'm going to assume that the events in the Season Finale took place a few months before October. Therefore, Dean hasn't lost too much time.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own 'em.

* * *

**Prologue**

A shriek, earsplitting and terrified, ripped through the quiet darkness and filled the cavernous room with its petrified echoes. Eventually the sound faded into a thick, strangely deafening silence that crept into every crack and crevice.

"_David_!" Finally, another scream followed the first, although this one was filled with exasperation and just a hint of anger; the terror had vanished.

Margaret King stared at the life-sized statue she'd inadvertently run into while groping for the garage light, her heart still beating frantically at the sight of the clown's twisted yellow eyes and malicious smile. He—_it_ was just a few feet taller than her, with plastic hands that gripped a gigantic and realistic-looking knife as if poised to strike.

"I _told_ you not to leave these things lying around!" She continued heatedly, hands moving from her chest to rest agitatedly on her hips. She was confident that he'd heard her no matter where he stood inside their tiny townhouse.

"What, honey?" The man in question sauntered down the hallway, poking his head over her shoulder to get a look at what she was complaining about. "Oh, I didn't know I'd left Billy in here." He said sheepishly, his tone apologetic and almost a little afraid—with good reason.

"Billy? You named this… this _thing_?" She demanded, pointing a stiff finger at the grimacing clown statue.

"Well, see I bought Bil—uh, _it_ awhile ago off of this guy—,"

"I don't care!" She broke in, recognizing a long reminiscence when she saw one; her husband was fond of those. "You _know_ how I feel about these things, and to have it here in the garage, just _staring_ at me—," She broke off with a deep shudder that made her entire body quake.

"Sorry, hun," Dave said again, wrapping an affectionate arm around her waist. Despite her anger, she leaned her head into his shoulder to escape the sight of the perverse clown. "I guess I'd forgotten about him with all the unpacking we've been doing lately."

"The move _did_ happen fast," She conceded finally, sparing a glance at the small, sparkling diamond he had placed permanently on her left ring finger just two months before. "I just couldn't pass up this house; it's not much but—,"

"I know," He said, smiling fondly and steering them away from the garage and its creepy inhabitant. "I should have warned you that I'd put him in there."

"You should have warned me that you were a fanatic about Halloween," She said, a small hint of distaste back in her tone. "Honestly, the entire front yard is now a graveyard scene; skeletons are draped all over the house; and It is now taking up residence in our garage."

"I thought you hated Steven King," He said inconsequently, probably to avoid a topic they had discussed at length already.

"I saw the movie." She replied, a hint of defensiveness in her tone.

"Aw, well that doesn't really count; the movie was a big disappointment. You should have read the book, there was this chapter—,"

"I know, I know," She said, waving him off—her husband liked recounting scary stories almost as much as he liked reminiscing. "I'm a wimp. But please, just keep the creepy decorations to a minimum inside the house? I've given you free rein everywhere else."

"It looks amazing, doesn't it?" He asked, his eyes shining in an excited, childlike way that made her heart hum. "I can't believe I found the stuff at my mother's house; I thought she'd thrown it all out after dad died."

"How lucky for us," She said wryly, although she couldn't quite hold onto her anger as he stood there beaming at her like that. "Just remember what I said, please?"

"I promise," He replied, grasping her hand lightly between two of his and raising it to his lips. She smiled, her anger shrinking away completely.

"That's not fair," She said ruefully, halfheartedly tugging her fingers away.

"I know," He grinned wickedly then, the kind of smile he hardly ever used, but when he did—_wow_. "I'll go move Billy right now, alright?"

"Sure," She said, nodding appreciatively. Then she spared a glance at her wristwatch, noting the time. "Just don't spend too long in there; we've got reservations for eight o'clock."

Half an hour later, Margaret placed the slender, dangling earring in her left ear and added the finishing touches to her makeup. Once satisfied with her red satin dress and matching jewelry, she walked down the hall in search of David.

"Honey?" She called lightly, and then waited for a response. When she received none, she ventured further into the house.

Her heels clicked lightly on the wooden floors as she walked. After sweeping past the kitchen, living room and bathroom, she frowned and became more detailed in her search.

"David?" She called again, a little louder this time. She heard a slight shuffling at the other end of the house, toward the garage. She glanced at her watch, realized that they needed to leave in five minutes if they were to make their reservation, and started back the other way.

A trickle of foreboding ran down along her spine and caused the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She shook herself slightly and rolled her shoulders to dispel the sudden chill; the clown really wasn't that scary and she needed to get used to these kinds of things if she was going to spend her life with David. Still, the unwanted feeling seemed to double and intensify with every step until she felt almost ready to jump out of her skin.

As if to top off this cheesy Hollywood scene, the lights began to flicker. They went out once, plunging the entire house into darkness, and then began to waver erratically.

She closed her eyes briefly and then opened them again. After a moment in which she gathered her wits together, she continued toward the door that opened into the garage. She thought of all the junk that had accumulated in that room and how she needed to go through it and divide the items based on necessity and clutter; the plans helped her frazzled nerves settle a little and reminded her that the world was a safe, orderly place. She opened the garage door.

"David, are you still in—," She froze, hand still on the handle as she struggled to take in the scene using the small sliver of light the open door offered. The clown figure was leaning strangely against the far wall, a good few feet away from its original position as if it had been moved, and at its feet, amid the mountains of brown boxes and unknown junk was—

"_David_!" Forgetting her dress and her heels and her fear, she flew toward his slumped figure. Her shoes caught on something; the ground slid beneath her and she landed hard on her back. The floor felt strangely slick and her hands had definitely fallen into something wet.

She sat up, ignoring the pain as she continued to scramble toward David. Her hair fell from its elegant bun and drifted into her face, and she impatiently shoved it back with her hand—a flash of red glinted from the corner of her eye.

She yanked her hand away from her face, felt the liquid it had left there, and held her fingers into the small beam of light from the open door. With a sense of growing horror she realized that something red and gluttonous coated her hands; she looked down at her body and realized her dress was covered in it as well.

Blood.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound made it past her lips—the world would never be sane or orderly again.

* * *

"Dean!" 

The eldest Winchester jolted up in bed, his heart pulsing in his ears at the sound of Sam's urgent shout. "Sammy?" He rasped, his eyes instinctively squinting at the bright light that had abruptly filled the hotel room.

"I've been trying to wake you up for the last five minutes," Sam groused, moving from the single window to sit on his own bed, elbows on knees, body facing Dean. "What's up with you?"

Dean's brain slowly tried to decipher the question, still sluggish from sleep. He reached up a hand to rub his eyes. "What's up with me?" He repeated, unable to decode Sam's query. He glanced briefly at the clock, which informed him it was almost one in the afternoon.

"You've been sleeping later and later the past couple weeks," Sam replied, and there was a deeper statement there, a hidden meaning, as there always was when it came to Sam.

The answer to that was pretty simple, too; he was waking up later because sleep had been evading him steadily for the past couple of weeks.

He had never been one to dwell on things; tortured, all-night worry sessions were more his anguished—aka pansy—brother's thing. But lately he'd found himself sitting and wondering and maybe even _waiting_—although for what, he didn't know. For the demon to collect? For death? For _Hell_?

"Dean?"

Great, Sam was worried. More worried than usual, anyway, because he had been nothing but worried since the day they'd killed The Demon—the day he'd found out that Dean had sold his soul.

"Dude, are you monitoring my sleeping habits now?" He asked, shifting in bed and throwing his legs over the side.

Sam was not deterred. "Should I be?"

"No."

That was it; Dean gave no other answer or reaction. He stayed facing the wall and waited his brother out. There was a sigh and a shifting of bedsprings from Sammy's end; then he heard the telltale sign of a laptop being booted up.

_That'a boy. _

Dean stood, grabbed a few clothes, and walked to the bathroom. After doing the routine morning thing, which included brushing his teeth, taking a shower and finding clothes that smelled halfway decent, he waited at the threshold and watched his brother work on finding a new case.

There were frown-lines between Sam's eyebrows, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and an air of weariness that seemed to permeate from the tips of his toes all the way up to that ridiculous mop of hair. If Dean were anyone else, he would say that Sam was simply tired; tired of one hunt after another, tired of research, just _tired_. But Dean was Dean and Sam was Sam, and because of that Dean knew this went much deeper.

Sam was running himself into the ground worrying about Dean. And Dean had no idea how to convince him to stop.

Shaking his head, Dean banished the thoughts, refusing to dwell on them. He was still around, and that meant he could make sure his idiot kid-brother kept himself healthy. The problem would be when he _wasn't_ around anymore, an idea that had never seemed like a possibility before but now loomed in the horizon with dark, deadly certainty.

That was something he didn't want to think about, either.

"Found anything worth checking out?" He asked, a little loudly so that his voice carried across the room. Not that it would take much in a hotel room the size of a prison cell.

Sam stayed silent for just long enough that Dean wondered whether or not he'd been too absorbed in his research to hear the question. Then he looked up unexpectedly and caught Dean's gaze.

"Possibly."

* * *

_A/N: Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Expect another update soon!_


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

That was it. If Sam heard _one more_ aggravated grunt from the driver's seat, he was going to do something very, _very_ drastic.

He wasn't quite sure _what_, exactly, but he would think of something. Most likely.

"Dude, come on!" Dean breathed vehemently, his voice just audible over the crackly hum of the radio. Well, that was a step up from growling, although not by much.

"_Dean_," Sam bit out in exasperation, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his brother. His _older_ brother. How, exactly, did that work out?

"It doesn't bother you?" Dean asked, removing his eyes from the current scenery to spare Sam a glance.

"The fact that people hang ghosts from their trees and put skeletons on their front steps? No, not really." Sam answered, his tone indicating both his vexation of the subject and the fact that this was a long-exhausted argument.

"They have no idea, Sammy," Dean replied, and Sam had heard this speech well enough over the years to mouth along with him. He didn't, of course; at least _one_ of them had to be mature about this. "They decorate their yards and wear stupid costumes every year, and they have no idea that this stuff is actually out there, _killing_."

"They can't help being ignorant, Dean," Sam retorted, and he saw Dean silently articulating the words from the corner of his eye. _Jerk_. "They don't know what's out there, and we want to keep it that way."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, although Sam knew it was more of a brush-off than a conceder. When Halloween rolled around next year, Sam was certain his brother would whine all over again about the decorations just as he'd done since… well, since Sam could remember.

Then he froze, stricken as a thought occurred to him. If the Crossroad Demon had its way, then by this time next year Dean would be dead and gone. He suddenly felt sick, his stomach rolling unpleasantly as the microwaved hamburger Dean had forced him to eat threatened to make a reappearance.

"Sam?" Dean asked, and his tone let Sam know that some of the turmoil had shown on his face.

"Yeah?" He asked, pulling himself away from his thoughts with some difficulty and willing his stomach to settle.

"Nothin'." Dean replied after a few seconds, and Sam glanced over at him. Suspicion lingered around the corners of his eyes and in the downward tilt of his lips, but other than that Dean looked decidedly normal. "How much farther?"

Sam unraveled the massive map next to him and compared their location to that of the tiny, numbered streets. "Not too far. Should be there in about thirty minutes."

Dean grinned then, his foot pressing harder against the pedal. The car let out a ferocious roar and gained momentum. "Bet I can make it in ten."

Sam winced slightly, but was otherwise unfazed. He had ridden shotgun to Dean long enough to be at ease with speeds like these.

The tires hit a wide, cleverly concealed bump in the road, and the whole frame wobbled a little. Sam gulped. Well, _almost_ at ease.

"So, you want to go over the case again?" Dean asked, eyes still intent on the road.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said, letting his previous thoughts disperse as he recalled the information he'd found. "I ran across an article in the Lawrence Times—,"

"Lawrence?" Dean asked quickly, his voice wary. Sam noticed the way his eyes left the road for a few moments to rove over street-signs and scenery, as if making sure they hadn't somehow ended up a dozen states away in Kansas.

"We're in Massachusetts, Dean," He said patiently, a little sympathetically.

"Right," Dean said slowly, and Sam saw his grip loosen slightly on the wheel; blood flooded back to his knuckles. "Lawrence, Massachusetts, got it."

"Yeah," Sam replied, for lack of anything better. "Anyway, a few people have turned up dead over the last two weeks, starting with this one guy in a neighborhood called Whispering Willows Way—,"

"Say that again, slowly," Dean interrupted once more, but this time there was a slick grin on his lips.

Sam narrowed his eyes but didn't deign to respond. "There's no clear pattern; they all died differently. So I looked into it, and there have actually been a few dozen deaths over the past thirty-five years."

"So, probably not coincidence." Dean replied, his voice pensive.

"_Definitely_ not," Sam replied, with so much certainty that Dean shot him a puzzled glance. "These deaths? They occurred in October. Different years, different days, but all in the same month."

* * *

Margaret had stared into the mirror, without blinking, for most of the day. Her face had long since morphed and become a blurred image without discernable features. 

He had bought her this vanity table. He'd noticed the way she'd had to dash back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom closet while getting ready, and had secretly purchased the piece of furniture to make her life just a little bit easier. He had always done things to make her life easier, more comfortable.

And now he was gone. They were supposed to grow old together; they had planned on having children. There was an extra room right down the hall from theirs, and they had been preparing to convert it into a nursery. But he was dead. Their house stood empty, most of her furniture in storage except for the beautiful piece in front of her that so reminded her of David, and she was staying with her parents. She would never have that life; none of those carefully-made plans would come to pass.

He had been twenty-nine, and he was dead. And she was twenty-seven and a widow. How was that fair? _How?_

Tears spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks, overlapping older, nearly dry tracks. It seemed she couldn't go an hour without weeping.

Distantly, she heard a soft, chiming noise. Pulling herself back from the grief, the raw, indescribable _pain_, she stood shakily from the delicate chair that sat in front of the small table. She ran her hands clumsily over her face and cheeks as the doorbell sounded again, and then gave it up as a lost cause. She knew the tears would not be kept permanently at bay.

Shuffling out of the room, feeling a hundred years older and reliving gruesome details every step of the way, she made it to the front door and pulled it open.

She'd expected policeman. Or maybe sympathizers, or people who were truly grieving the loss of David King. She could tell just from looking at the pair framing the doorway, though, that these two were none of the above.

"Mrs. King?" The taller of the two asked, and she sent him a puzzled look. He sounded compassionate, looked sympathetic, and if she hadn't been positive that she'd never met him in her life, she'd maybe think he was just another person wishing to offer condolences. But there was a purpose behind his sad gaze, one she didn't altogether understand.

"Yes?" She asked; her voice came out hoarse, and she cleared her throat.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. King, but we need to discuss your husband's assets." He caught Margaret's confused look and quickly continued, "Because your husband passed away before he could generate a will, we've been sent to act as Personal Representatives."

"Is that important?" She asked, stepping back a little unsteadily and allowing them entrance into her home. "I hadn't even thought about…"

"That's highly understandable, Mrs. King," The taller one said gently, his voice again conveying the depths of his empathy. "We just need to ask you a few questions about David."

"Call me Margaret," She said absently, because she had no other reply to that and she wasn't sure she was ready to begin a discussion like this. Then she looked at the two of them. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your names."

"Samuel Hart, ma'am," said the first, lifting his hand for her to shake.

"Dean Malcolm," The second introduced, speaking for the first time during their encounter. "Sorry about your husband, Margaret." His voice wasn't as soft or as soothing as the other man's, but there was something comforting in the gruff tone. She also noticed that he was shorter, but older, with more lines around his eyes and a tired set to his shoulders. The picture all-together shouted weary defiance; she knew enough about that.

She nodded and led them to the dining room table. "Would you like anything?" She asked, stalling just a bit longer. "Tea, something to eat?"

The man called Dean looked like he was halfway considering it, but Sam shot him a look and he desisted. "We're sorry to bring this up," The younger man said, eyes back on her. "But we really need to ask you those questions."

She breathed in deeply, steeling herself, and then sat down across from them. They stared jointly at her for a moment.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Sam posed the question finally, and she released the air in her lungs with a soft whoosh.

"What has that got to do with David's assets?" She asked, a little stiffly.

"We're just trying to be thorough, Margaret," Dean replied, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table. "Our firm requires a report on the events surrounding David's death."

She flinched, and he looked sorry. Then she closed her eyes, braced herself again, and said, "I was getting ready in the other room. We had… we had dinner reservations at the new restaurant a few blocks from here. He was in the garage, cleaning up some of his Halloween decorations—he loved to decorate—but when I came to find him he—he—," She shuddered to a halt, the tears releasing from her eyes in a flood of grief.

"It's okay, Margaret, just take your time," Sam said, resting a hand on top of one of hers from across the table. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Then she breathed deeply until she had regained her composure a little.

"He was on the floor, and everything was dark. I tried to get to him, but I slipped on—I slipped on his blood. It was everywhere. All over the floor, all over me," She took a gasping breath, but didn't stop; now that she had begun, the words tumbled quickly out of her mouth as if begging to be released. "I got to him, and I tried to find what was wrong, where he was bleeding. And on his back—on his back there was—," She did stop this time, unable to squeeze the word past the terrible lump in her throat. Her hands clutched at the air, as if holding an invisible handle, and she moved downward them in a swift, pantomiming motion.

"Was it a stab wound, Mrs. King?" Dean asked, and his voice sounded strange. She looked up at him, and was a little taken aback by what she saw. His face had whitened noticeably and there seemed to be something dark and haunted lurking just behind his eyes. When she didn't answer, he continued, "Was he stabbed in the back?"

She nodded, confused by the bleak understanding she saw in his expression. "That's what they told me later. He was already—there was nothing they could do. He was de-dead."

Through the painful haze and glazed tears, she noticed Dean's eyes shifted to his partner and then jumped guiltily away, as if the action was forbidden.

"And there was no weapon around?" Sam asked to pull the conversation back to its directed route, although he, too, sounded distracted.

"No," She answered, and then amended, "Well, David had this… this life-size Halloween figure—but the knife was plastic and couldn't have—couldn't have—,"

"I understand," Sam said when she didn't go on. Then he hesitated slightly, as if about to ask a question he didn't really want to voice. "He didn't have any… enemies, did he, Margaret? Anyone would who would want to hurt him?"

Her eyes widened at the implication, and she shook her head harshly. "No. Everyone liked David. Everyone. He was kind and honest, and he helped out whenever he could."

She shook her head, tears still listing gently down her cheeks and splattered onto the dining room table.

"We were sent here to discuss David's assets," Sam said slowly after a few moments of silence, and she could tell he was watching her closely. "But I hate to think of upsetting you more than we already have. We could come back in a few days; you could prepare a list of any valuables he might have had in the meantime."

Her first instinct was to deny the proposition, to say that she was strong and could deal with this discussion. But the fact was she _couldn't_; she couldn't bear to think about David or any of his once-cherished belongings, and this man was allowing her an out, a chance to come to terms with it at her own pace.

A chance that she would most certainly take.

"Thank you," She said quietly and sincerely, standing from her chair. They did the same and she led them to the door, which she opened for them. "You can stop by in a few days; I'll be here all week."

And the week after that. And all the weeks following until she found another place to live. Another place to live without David, a place to be alone with the ghost of the life they could have had.

"I'm truly sorry," Sam said, his voice stripped and honest. She nodded and smiled tremulously.

"I just don't know what to do now," She confessed, perhaps because his voice inspired such earnestness and trust. "David was… _everything_. How can I live without him?"

"I don't know," This time it was not Sam but Dean who spoke, and she looked at him. His eyes were guarded now, but his expression was taut and his shoulders were tense.

"I guess I have to find a way. I don't have a choice," She said to him, her body seeming to sink into itself at the thought of living one more moment with the loss.

"Most people don't," He replied, and then edged another glance at Sam.

"Thank you for your time," The other man said, as if taking a cue. "We'll see you later."

"Goodbye," She said faintly, waving a hand. Then she shut the door and turned around to face the house—and the world—alone.

* * *

_Another update tomorrow..._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"I'm sorry."

Dean glanced at Sam, only able to make out the bare outline of his face in the darkness. He twitched his flashlight, and Sam was immediately illuminated. "What?"

Dean saw him hesitate. "They didn't say how David King died," He replied after awhile, his face awash with regret. "His case was the only one that seemed like murder, so the police were pretty tight-lipped about it."

Oh, _that_. Dean grimaced and focused the beam of his flashlight on something else. It landed on a few dozen fake gravestones, which had faux cobwebs and plastic skeletons scattered throughout. "Forget it."

"Dean…"

"_Forget_ it." He repeated, more adamantly this time. He flicked his hand absently and the beam scattered again, dancing across the yard. Realizing the attention the jumpy light could garner, he quickly angled it out of sight, keeping a wary eye out for passing cars or pedestrians.

The neighborhood was proportioned well, but the houses were still relatively close together. The large tree in the front yard did a decent job covering them, but he still wanted to be careful. Last thing they needed was to get busted and end up with the FBI closing in on them. _Again_.

"It looks clear," He said, glancing back at Sam, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. "Ready?"

Sam sighed, as if hating for their discussion to be interrupted by petty things such as hunting, but answered with an affirmative. Following Dean, the two slipped through the yard to the front door. Dean bent down and picked the lock while Sam stood guard; after a soft click, he turned the handle and let himself into the house. Sam followed and hurriedly shut the door.

"Wow," Sam said, and Dean had to agree. Besides the fact that the small house had been stripped of its furniture, everything about it screamed 'normal.' After a yard like the one out front, Dean had been expecting something akin to a haunted house inside. It was a little anticlimactic.

"It happened in the garage, right?" Dean asked, already moving toward that side of the house. Again, Sam followed.

Dean walked cautiously down the hall to the door that he assumed would lead to the garage. He rested his hand on the doorknob for a moment, the thought of King's death still getting to him. He could just _see_ it; the knife sliding in and David King falling to the ground, eyes wide and face slack—

He shoved the thoughts away, determined not to make King's death and Sam's one in the same. He grit his teeth and then threw the door open.

This was more like what he'd expected to see. Not that there would be anything different about it under normal circumstances, just boxes piled high with junk and a layer of dirt and dust covering everything. But the cleared space in the middle and the stark-white outline on the concrete left nothing to the imagination. Neither did the dark, bloodied stain that stretched out around it. And the air was different, too; stagnant, stale and tinted with a coppery scent.

Knowing that his brother was behind him and watching, Dean pushed himself into the room, careful not to disturb the scene. Dust fluttered in the two beams of light as the brothers looked around.

"This is definitely where it happened," Sam said, and Dean heard the distinct crackle of an EMF reader. "There's probably something—_holy shit_!"

There was a loud clatter and then Sam, all six-foot-four of him, tumbled to the ground. He landed on his ass, legs out in front of him, eyes wide.

"Sam!" It took Dean scarcely a heartbeat to reach his brother's side, eyes searching for the source of Sam's fear. His brother didn't scare easily.

"What hap—," The words choked in Dean's throat as his flashlight illuminated a figure, skulking against the wall like a crazed animal. Its glazed, plastic eyes glared down at them and its painted lips sneered evilly. The similarly fake butcher knife glinted in its gloved hands.

Dean choked again, this time on his laughter. He let go of Sam, who was already pulling himself off the floor, and braced his hands on his knees, doubling over.

"This is _not_ funny," Sam bit out, his voice a low grumble as he tried to regain some of his dignity.

"You—the clown—," He started, his words punctuated by deep chuckles. He breathed through his nose, trying to dispel his sudden laughter.

"Who keeps something like—something like _that_ in a garage?" Sam demanded, edging a shaky glance in the statue's direction.

"I still can't believe you're afraid of clowns after all we've seen and done," Dean said, calmer now but his voice still coated with amusement. Then he narrowed his eyes. "And don't mention planes again. At least my fear is _logical_."

"You're telling me that this _thing_ doesn't freak you out?" Sam asked, both incredulous and defensive.

"No."

Sam glared.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean said, his eyebrow quirking, "I'll search this side of the room for you."

Dean saw the debate as clearly on Sam's face as if he'd spoken aloud. After a few moments and one more jumpy look at the clown, Sam nodded and shifted to the other side of the room.

"Are you _limping_?"

"Shut up, Dean!"

Still sniggering to himself, Dean returned to his search and pulled out his own EMF reader. After five minutes of aimlessly pointing, he reached a conclusion.

"This room is _covered_. You getting the same readings I am?"

"Yes," Sam replied, and his EMF also responded positively. "Except for the middle, which is more concentrated because that's where David died, everything is showing moderately high readings."

"So, definitely supernatural."

"Which part clued you in?"

"You're just pissed because I'm not afraid of the clown."

"At least I can get on a plane without humming Metallica."

They both glowered at one another, having reached an impasse. Eventually, Sam gave in and broke eye-contact first, muttering about getting the job done. Dean loved it when Sam tried to pull the _mature_ card.

"We need to do some research." Sam said, still looking elsewhere.

"No," Dean corrected, now turning toward the exit. "You need to do some research. I'm more of a hands-on type guy."

"That better not be an innuendo." Sam groused, and Dean flashed him a grin.

"Sammy, _everything's_ an innuendo."

Sam sighed, conveying all of his thoughts on maddening older brothers in that simple expulsion of breath. "Fine, I'll research. You can talk to the locals."

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, clapping his hands together in an enthused way as they slipped out of the house.

"But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't shoot any of the Halloween decorations this time."

* * *

Dean pulled the Impala into an unobtrusive parking lot behind a reasonably nice-looking store and then set out on foot. He had a list of addresses in his pocket, which included the victims' homes and the various places they had worked. He was planning on asking around and getting an idea of the situations surrounding their deaths.

Since there was still no clear pattern other than the fact that the victims died in October, Dean needed to find some way of linking them to each other; ghosts rarely stayed behind just to off random people. And he couldn't cross demons off the list of suspects either, although most of the evidence pointed towards an angry spirit. Except for the lack of connection.

He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets to fight off the slight chill in the air and crossed the street. There were shops on either side, each one bright and colorful and decorated with spooky figures and smiling ghosts. His lips twisted, but he shoved down his impatience and focused on the job. He walked another block, glanced at his list, and then stepped into the small coffee shop on the corner.

The door jangled as he entered, and he felt the stares of the few customers scattered around the café. He wondered if they were looking because Lawrence was small enough to easily identify outsiders; if so, they'd need to watch themselves. Low profiles were vital at this point.

After a few seconds' debate, he sat down at one of the tables and took a quick glance around. There were seven or eight tables in all, four of them filled including his, and there were also a dozen stools set up against the counter, two of which were occupied. A waitress served drinks from behind the counter, and there was an additional exit in the back.

The waitress, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen and had bright red hair and freckles, caught sight of him and made her way over to his table.

"What can I get you?" She asked, and from the slow, unhurried quality of her voice he could tell that this place was hardly ever crowded.

"Coffee, black," He ordered, figuring he might as well get a boost while he was here. He watched as she moved over to the counter and poured his drink into a bright orange mug. He grinned a little, but made no comment as she brought it back over.

"It'll taste like mud," She warned as he took a sip. He grimaced; she had a point.

"We don't get many people who drink straight black coffee in here," She continued, shrugging at his look. "Mostly just lattes and cappuccinos."

He laughed a little and shook his head. "Too bad I didn't bring my brother."

"You guys visiting?" She asked, and he was guessing she wasn't in a rush to serve anyone else. He leaned forward toward her, resting his forearms on the table.

"Yeah," He replied, and then, struck by sudden inspiration, said, "Actually, I'm here to visit an old buddy of mine. I used to live around here, but I moved and lost contact."

She responded to his shift in position, moving a little closer and leaning her hands against the table. "Do you remember his name? Maybe I could help."

"Allen Pollack," He responded immediately. As expected, she paled and took a hurried step backward.

"Oh," She said, her hands now dancing nervously and clutching her ordering pad. "I don't… I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but…." She glanced around anxiously, as if wishing to be anywhere else.

"What? Did something happen to him?" He asked, his best impersonation of worried bewilderment.

"He… he died, two weeks ago," She said, so softly that he might not have understood if he hadn't already known the answer.

Dean leaned back in his chair, eyes widened and face slack. He wasn't so great at sympathy, but _this_ he could do. "He _died_? How?"

"I don't…" She fiddled with her order pad and pencil again, sliding both through her fingers in a decidedly uncomfortable gesture. Clearly she regretted entering this conversation at all.

"Please?" He asked, looking at her with every appearance of a saddened old friend.

"He hung himself," She said finally, reluctance and grief dripping from her tone. "I don't know why—he always seemed so happy—," She broke off, eyes watery. "He worked here before… before it happened."

"Oh," Dean said, and then paused a minute. When he figured it would be believable he asked, "You're _sure_ you don't you know why? There wasn't any change in his behavior before it happened?"

He knew she had noticed it, the sudden, business-like manner of his question. Her eyes narrowed and her hands abruptly stopped moving. However, just when he thought she might turn around and walk away, she answered, "No. He seemed fine all week. We had most of our shifts together and if anything was wrong, I couldn't tell."

He nodded but stayed quiet, thinking it over. Same basic story that the newspaper had given; friend walked in and found Pollack swinging from the ceiling.

"Thank you," He said, as solemnly as he could manage. This seemed to regain a few of the points he'd lost, and she smiled a little.

"Yeah, no problem. I'm Emily, by the way." She held out her hand to him. He returned the gesture and reciprocated the smile, figuring he might as well be charming about it.

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you. And I'm sorry you came all this way to find out… you know." She fidgeted again; a habit of hers, he was noticing.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry about that, too." He nodded slowly and then, going out on a limb he said, "He always seemed like a good person."

Her eyes misted over and she dabbed at them absently with the corner of her notepad. "Yeah, he was. I'm not so great at this stuff," She waved her hand toward the scary-looking machines behind the counter, "but Allen helped me out a lot."

"Must be hard," He responded, honestly this time. He understood something about losing the person you worked alongside every day.

"Yeah," She repeated, and then smiled tremulously. "If you want to say goodbye, I could give you the name of the cemetery where he was… you know, buried." The last word trembled a little.

Grave sites were always helpful. He nodded. "That would be great, thank you."

So, he thought as he watched her scribble down a name and address. They had three dead guys, no motive or explanation, and one very freaky Halloween decoration.

It was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

* * *

_Big thanks to those who have reviewed so far! This is personally my favorite chapter, so if you read it, if you liked it, let me know! More tomorrow._


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sam reached up a hand and rubbed blearily at his eyes, shoving the laptop away from him. He reclined in his seat and stretched his long legs out in front of him, heaving a sigh.

Research was always tedious, and he was usually left with the brunt of it while Dean ran off to do legwork. Sam was used to that, and honestly he liked it better that way; Dean could hit the books when necessary, but he usually didn't sit still for more than a few minutes and ended up being more of a distraction than anything else. But Sam had to admit that walking around town and questioning friends and relatives of the victims sounded nice right about now.

Only in his screwed-up life was _that_ ever a refreshing change.

After a few minutes of relaxation, he leaned forward and tugged the computer back in front of him to look at his results again. There was just no solid connection. He'd found that a few of the victims were relatives, which had initially caused him to question whether or not the malevolent creature held a personal vendetta. But he couldn't see how that worked out, not when they weren't _all_ steadily related to each other.

He'd also researched any deaths that had occurred in October over the last fifty years. He'd gotten nearly hundreds of outcomes, ranging from heart attacks to car accidents to murder, but nothing jumped out at him. All of the victims died differently, the three most recent from being stabbed, hung, and buried alive. So it wasn't as if a ghost was using its own manner of destruction against other people.

This was shaping up to be a weird case, even for them.

A sudden, shrill ringing sliced through the air, causing Sam to jump slightly after so much stillness. Shaking his head at himself, he picked up his phone and flipped it open.

"I hope you found something, because so far I haven't—,"

"I think I did."

Sam's mouth closed with a snap, surprise momentarily rendering him speechless. "You what?"

There was a pause, a grumble and the sound of the Impala starting up. Then Dean replied, "I think I found a connection."

"That's great," Sam enthused, keen to hear an answer to the infuriatingly unsolvable puzzle. "What is it?"

"I drove by their houses," Dean replied, and there was something like hesitation in his tone; it was almost like he was stalling. "And Sam, these people were freaks. You remember David King's house? They're all like that; decorations everywhere, tombstones all over the place; ghosts, demons—,"

"Dean, can you forget that for a minute and tell me what you found?" Sam interrupted, exasperated that Dean chose now to rant about his infamous pet peeve.

"I _am_, asshat," Dean growled, definitely irritated. "I'm telling you, that's the connection. They all go overboard decorating for Halloween."

There was a moment of dead silence. Then a chuckle escaped Sam's lips; he could hear it echoing over Dean's cold and very silent end of the line.

"You think these people are dying because they… like Halloween?" He asked, as carefully as he could. He knew when Dean grunted that his brother had seen right through the politely phrased question.

"I know how it sounds, but—,"

"Dean, are you sure you're not projecting just a little?" Sam asked, and he couldn't quite keep the amusement out of his voice. "I doubt ghosts have the same problem you do."

"Don't use that psychiatrist crap on me, Sam," Dean said, and Sam could tell by the way the words were muffled that Dean was grinding his teeth together.

"I'm not. But Dean, just because _you_ want to off these people, doesn't mean—,"

"You done being a smartass yet?" Dean interrupted, his voice mockingly questioning. "Because there's more if you are."

Sam bit his tongue and reeled in his sarcastic response. "Okay, fine. Keep going."

An aggrieved sigh reverberated through the line. Then, "You remember the clown statue, right?"

Sam made an affronted noise. "Don't use that against me now because you came up with a—,"

"_Stabbed_, Sam. King was stabbed. And you remember what your buddy was holding, don't you?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again as realization sunk in. After a moments' pause, Sam answered, "A knife."

"Exactly. And guess what? Allen Pollack had a _very_ convincing-looking body hanging from a tree in his front yard."

"And the guy who was buried alive?" Sam questioned, working hard to keep his suddenly-piqued curiosity out of his tone.

"Looks like a body digging itself out of a grave. Or being buried in one."

Okay, so it had potential. Crazy, weird, confusing potential, but there was a definite correlation. "So…. what? We're supposed to go door-to-door and ask everyone to remove their decorations? Do we even know _what's_ doing this?"

"Did you find anything that sounds like angry-death material?" Dean asked, skipping over Sam's first and admittedly sardonic question.

"Lots of stuff, but nothing that connects to Halloween."

"Which apparently this does," Sam smiled at the hint of defiance in his brother's tone, daring Sam to contradict it.

"Well," Sam said, slowly so as not to give in too easily. Dean was already smug enough. "I guess the evidence so far seems to be pointing that way."

"Say it, Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes, though Dean couldn't see him. "Fine, it's a valid theory."

He could pretty much hear Dean's grin through the phone. After a few seconds Dean said, "Did you find anything else?"

Sam decided to ignore the superior satisfaction that lingered around the edges of Dean's question. "A few are related. In bits and pieces, actually, and there are no solid links between the people who _aren't_ family."

"Weird."

"You're telling me. Are you close?"

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Why?"

Sam tapped his fingers absently on the computer keys, not using enough force to depress the buttons completely. "I think we should pay another visit to Margaret King."

* * *

"How are we going to broach the subject?" 

Dean glanced at Sam. "Since when do we plan these things?"

"We can't exactly walk in there and just ask about the clown. There has to be _some_ reasoning behind it."

"We're documenting his assets; the clown is an asset." Dean grinned and stopped the car at the end of the drive. "From there, we just wing it."

"Ever notice how that strategy doesn't work out so well?" Sam grunted, but Dean had already exited the car. Sam got out and strode up the walk with Dean, straightening his clean-cut, _I'm-just-an-innocent-lawyer_ shirt as he went.

He had raised his hand, poised to ring the doorbell, when the door unexpectedly swung inward to reveal Margaret King.

She looked older and wearier than she had just two days previously, if that was possible, but her eyes were brighter, stronger. There was a flicker of something in them, and a determined expression pulled at the edges of her face. The combination set Sam on edge.

"Hello, Margaret," He said after a moment of pause, his voice respectful and polite. "We're sorry to stop by sooner than expected, but—,"

"No, I was actually hoping you would," She said, and that same, bizarre resolve leaked into her words. "Come in."

Dean looked briefly at Sam, and Sam could read the wariness in his eyes. He responded with a similar glance of his own, and, coming to a silent agreement, the two walked into the house. The door slammed closed, a little ominously. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.

"I got a call from David's lawyer," She began immediately, accusation hidden beneath her tone, and Sam knew it wasn't paranoia. The brothers exchanged looks again, these faster and more telling than the ones before. "I asked him about the list I was supposed to be making; your instructions were a little vague." Her face was hard now, a mask of animosity. "He said that since David and I were married, a will isn't necessary; all of his assets automatically shift into my possession unless specified otherwise."

"That's why we stopped by," Dean cut in, improvising wildly, "There was a misunderstand—,"

She whirled on him, all fire and fury, and Dean actually recoiled. "That's what I assumed at first, too. Until I found out that there is neither a Samuel Hart nor Dean Malcolm at my husband's lawyer's firm. A few phone-calls later, it turns out there's no one by those names at any legal office in this area."

Screwed. _Royally_ screwed.

"Mrs. King, it's not what you're—,"

"I think," She interrupted again, and Sam halted in his attempt to salvage the situation. "you should tell me exactly what you're doing here, and who the hell you are."

Neither of them hastened to answer. She looked back and forth, her glare impressive, fueled by grief and rage.

"Are you reporters?" She continued, harshly. "Trying to make money off of my husband's death? You come here, using your quiet, sympathetic voice like you actually care," She jabbed a finger sharply at Sam, who cringed. Demons and spirits he could handle; grieving widows were another matter entirely. "You _lie_ to me, make me relive one of the worst experiences of my life, one I haven't even had the _chance_ to recover from, and for _what_? A story?"

They were silent again. Then, unexpectedly and a little roughly, Dean said, "Yes."

She spun to face him. "_Yes_?"

Sam had a similar reaction, although he kept quiet.

"We're reporters," Dean replied, seemingly at ease, but Sam could see the lines that marred the space between his eyebrows.

"How _dare_ you?" She whispered, her anger reaching a level above shouting; Sam thought that was almost worse. "How dare you come here, and—_and_—,"

"No," Sam said suddenly, not quailing under Dean's warning look. "We're not reporters, Mrs. King; we didn't come here to make a profit off of your loss."

There was true confusion on her face, which took away some of the dreaded anger. "Then what? What could you possibly want?"

"Believe it or not, Margaret, we want to find David's killer," Sam said, as gently as he could. He knew Dean was still glaring holes into his back as he stepped cautiously forward, but he had no intention of spilling their secret. Not entirely.

"What?" Her face blanched, and tears dusted her cheeks. "My husband's—but the police—,"

"Are doing the best they can," Sam replied quietly, "And so are we. Please, we just need to ask you a few questions. It won't take long, and then we'll get out and stay gone. Alright?"

"I… why?" She asked, now shifting from foot to foot and wringing her hands.

Dean sent Sam a look that said plainly, _You got yourself into this. Deal with it._

"We're just trying to help. If you could just trust us—,"

"You've given me no reason to trust you," Margaret said, taking a step back as anger flooded her cheeks again. There was a moment of silence, and then she said, carefully and deliberately, "Tell me who you are. _Really_."

"I'm Dean," Dean stepped forward unexpectedly, and Sam turned toward him, surprised. Dean shot him an annoyed look but continued, "And that's my brother, Sam."

Sam's lips quirked at Dean's unexpected support, but a look at Margaret's face told him she realized what had been omitted from that statement. He wondered if she'd comment on it, demand a full name and maybe license and registration, but her anger seemed to waver just slightly.

"Brothers?"

"Yeah."

"And you're here to find David's killer?"

"That's the plan."

She took a hurried few steps backward, stumbled into a seat at the dining room table where they'd had a conversation just a few days earlier, and buried her head in her hands. Dean and Sam waited, the silence awkward and uncomfortable. Not exactly an encouraging reaction, but she wasn't dialing the police, or anything.

Her shoulder shook a little, and then all at once she seemed to come back to herself. She sat up, mopped at her cheeks, and then faced them.

"What do you need to know?"

* * *

"That went well." 

"Better than if she'd thought we were there to exploit her."

Dean grunted noncommittally and turned on the car, roaring out of the neighborhood in a mass of acceleration and exhaust fumes.

"Great going with our cover story, by the way," Dean commented, tone mocking and lips quirked. "You didn't know all that mumbo-jumbo about marriages? Did you even pay _attention_ at Stanford?"

"I knew it, Dean," He replied, affronted. "I just didn't think she would. And I wanted something inconspicuous; I don't think impersonating FBI agents or local law enforcement is exactly a smart choice at this point."

"Don't kid yourself, Sammy. Just admit you fell asleep during Marriages and Wills Lecture Day."

Sam glowered at him, eyebrows furrowed so low that they shielded his eyes. "Shut up."

"Nice comeback," Dean replied promptly, his grin widening. Then he tapped his fingers on the worn steering wheel in an impatient way, his thoughts shifting. "She didn't tell us much."

"What she could," Sam defended fairly. At Dean's pointed look, he conceded, "Which isn't much."

"If she's not even sure where this thing came from, how are we supposed to find out?"

"She said King bought the clown from a man a few years ago," Sam countered, relaying what little information Margaret had been able to bestow upon them.

"Right, and that narrows it down _so much_."

Sam ignored Dean's sarcasm. "If it _is_ a cursed or haunted object," he began, although he realized that theory didn't quite fit, at least not totally. The phrase "grasping at straws" came to mind. "Destroying it won't do the trick. With the painting in New York, the spirit was attached to it, used it to pick her victims. But destroying it didn't get rid of her."

"Which is why we'd need the original owner," Dean concluded, as if he'd already thought all of this out. Sam wouldn't be surprised; Dean was a lot quicker than he liked people to think. "Which could be a wild goose chase if that's not what's causing this."

"Back at square one." Sam sighed in agreement.

"I'm starting to think we never _left_ square one."

The tone of his voice caused Sam to pause. His brother had always leaned more towards impatience, but lately it seemed to be more than that; there was a sense of edginess that almost bordered on desperation. Even now he looked tense, his fingers still drumming on the wheel and his back rigid.

"Dean?" Sam questioned. When Dean glanced at him, he said, "You okay?"

Dean looked startled. "Yeah, of course."

Sam narrowed his eyes and turned in his seat to face his brother fully. "Really? 'Cause you're acting kind of—,"

"What, Sam? How am I acting?" Dean posed the question warningly, even slightly aggressively, and it was this above all else that let Sam know something was going on; he had hit a nerve.

"Like you can't stand taking this long on a case," Sam replied cautiously, his voice casual. Asking Dean to admit his feelings was a little like coaxing a grizzly bear to hold your hand.

"We're going in circles," Dean said, still more belligerent and testy than the situation called for.

Sam hesitated again, trying to calculate the probability of this entire thing blowing up in his face. The likelihood seemed pretty high at this point. "And wasting time?"

At this Dean's eyes darted to Sam. Then they returned to the road, and he shook his head. "That's not what's bugging me."

Ah, to hell with it. "Really? Because if that _is_ what's bothering you, it means that you're starting to worry about time now that yours is limited," He saw the storm building inside Dean, harsh and frenzied and dangerous, but Sam pressed on relentlessly. "And if you're worrying about that, it means that you're actually afraid of what's coming, and that you haven't accepted it like you keep saying."

Dean gave no reaction for a few moments. Then suddenly the car swerved out of its lane and bouncing roughly along the side of the road. It rumbled to a halt and shuddered into silence as Dean yanked the keys out of the ignition. Sam saw him reach out and seize the door-handle, and for a wild moment he thought Dean would just get out and leave the conversation entirely. The next second, however, Dean looked back at him, breathing heavily.

"I'm going to say this once." His voice was deadly quiet and serious in a way that had Sam listening to every word. "I sold my soul. I'm going to hell next year. I get that—I knew it the second I agreed to the terms—and I _have_ accepted it. I don't care that you haven't. There is no out; there is no loophole that I can twist through. It's done."

"Dean," Sam protested, feeling panic pull at the edges of his consciousness. "You don't _know_ that. You can't just—,"

"_Listen_ to me!" Dean bellowed, and Sam was rendered speechless at the amount of rage behind his tone. "We won't go looking for a way out, you got that? I _refuse_ to."

"What the hell is up with you?" Sam said, voice rising enough to rival Dean's. "Why won't you even consider it? Time is slipping away, and you've done _nothing_ to protect yourself! How can you just sit back and let this happen? _How_, Dean?"

Dean looked at him then, and their gazes clashed. Sam recognized the stubborn set to Dean's jaw and the defiance stretched tight across his expression, but something else glinted from beneath all that. He could practically read it on Dean's face—there was something Dean hadn't told him. And whatever it was, Dean was warring with himself about whether or not to enlighten him now.

Sam saw the expression break, caught the grim acceptance that took its place. He waited, heart hammering, both dreading and anticipating Dean's answer.

"If I try to get myself out of this," Dean began, slowly and clearly, "If I try to weasel my way out or escape in any way…You die."

Sam blinked. The words gradually sunk into his head, settling there like some dark, disgusting insect. It was worse than he possibly could have imagined—why did Dean always have to carry such weighty secrets? And why was Sam always the last to know?

The answer to both questions was obvious.

"_What_?" Sam uttered, still absorbing the major emotional bombshell.

"You drop dead." Dean restated, just as bluntly as before. "And I'll be damned if I let that happen. Didn't enjoy it much the first time."

Sam flinched. The fact that he had died was difficult to swallow; the fact that Dean had lived _through_ his death was worse. Sam swung his gaze toward the window under the guise of examining the landscape, suddenly unable to even _look_ at Dean.

Making the Deal was Dean's choice, and a selfish one at that. Dean knew that better than anyone, knew the pain and spiraling anger that came from having someone he loved die for him. But the guilt still weighed on Sam's shoulders like a physical burden; how could it not, when his brother was due to spend a lifetime in Hell for _him_?

Sam hated this new revelation. He could feel the hope that he'd so desperately clung to after finding out about Dean's deal slipping through his fingers like sand. Besides what Dean had said, one dark, gaping blockade stopped Sam from continuing forward anyway, no matter what the Crossroad Demon had warned. He didn't want to die.

He was a coward, he knew. The shame of it settled beside the guilt until he felt like his back would curve from the combined weight. Dean would give everything, _had_ given everything, and Sam was already running scared? Dean had sacrificed his soul, albeit for reasons that had mattered more to himself than to the unresponsive, corpse Sam had been, and Sam couldn't do the same?

"Stop."

Sam glanced up, yanked from his dismal thoughts. He was sure the remorse and shame were displayed openly on his face, and he looked hurriedly away again before Dean could see.

"I know what you're thinking." Dean said. "Stop it."

"But Dean—," Sammy began, words just itching to burst from his lips—accusations and apologies and everything in between—but Dean cut him off again.

"I don't want you dead, period," He said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Which means I _definitely_ don't want you dead for me."

Sam swallowed past the painful lump in his throat and forced the onslaught of emotions to lessen a little. He wouldn't argue; what was the point? It hadn't worked when he was twelve and had wanted his big brother to let him fight his own battles and just leave him _alone_, and it wouldn't work now. Dean was programmed to believe that older brothers protected younger brothers—at any cost. There was no changing that.

"I can't…" Sam drifted off, unsure of how to voice what he was feeling. He shook his head grimly and stared unblinkingly at Dean. "I can't."

_I can't give up. I can't quit. I can't let you die._

"Yeah," Dean said after awhile, his voice softer and less abrasive than it had been throughout the conversation so far. "Me neither."

Silence settled over them after that, and it was neither uncomfortable nor contented. Or maybe it was both, or neither, or perhaps it was just saddened. No matter what kind, it felt like they had reached an agreement, or at the very least a truce. Nothing was solved, not really, but the rough, uncompromising barrier between them had crumbled a little.

Eventually Dean stuck the keys back into the ignition and started the car. He pulled back into the flow of traffic and for awhile the only sounds were the scratchy hum of the radio and the wind whistling past Impala.

"What's that sign say?"

Sam nearly jolted in surprise. He looked over at Dean, who was staring at something off in the distance. Sam followed his brother's gaze and noticed a large, stone sign with a name engraved onto its immaculate surface. He squinted and could just make out the words.

"Crossways Cemetery?" He read, and then let his gaze wander toward the dozens and dozens of solid, slate-grey headstones. "Is this important somehow?"

"Allen Pollack was buried there two weeks ago," Dean replied, pulling a small slip of paper from his pocket and waving it at Sam. Indeed, the victim's name and the address of the cemetery were scribbled on the paper in loopy, feminine handwriting.

Dean slowed the Impala and flicked on the turn-signal.

"And what, exactly will we gain from this?" Sam asked, slightly weary. It still rankled that Dean was always in control of the car, and therefore the destination.

"Sometimes evil leaves signs around gravesites, you know that," Dean said, shooting Sam an annoyed glance. "And it's possible that the other guys were buried here, too."

"True enough, but I doubt we have another zombie case," Sam protested, returning Dean's look with an impressive one of his own. "There'd have to be someone who knew the rituals, for one."

"I'm not saying that's what this is," Dean replied, the aggravation now creeping into his tone. "I'm just saying, it can't hurt to look. We don't have much else to go on, and it might be useful to know our way around the cemetery."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, paused for a second and then closed it again, grinning ruefully instead.

"What?" Dean asked, sounding bemused and a little distrustful.

"Only us, man," He replied, shaking his head now and chuckling a little. "Fine, we can take a look around."

* * *

_Long, I know, but hopefully you enjoyed it! More soon. _


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Did you come to reserve a final resting place? We have many plots available—,"

"No," Sam interrupted firmly, holding a hand up to ward off the caretaker's questions. "We just wanted to visit an old friend of ours."

"Are you sure?" The man asked, running a hand through his thinning gray hair and smiling at them in a way that seemed both pleased and sad at once. Being around death all day did that to a guy, Sam supposed. "You never know when something could go wrong; don't you want a nice place to sleep should the worst occur?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't want to ponder the worst, especially when it was such was a real possibility in their line of work. "Please, can you just tell us where Alan Pollack was laid to rest?"

The caretaker nodded, looking disappointed at the lack of sale, and pointed. "Plot eighty, fifth row to the left."

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded curtly and set off in that direction. Sam then turned his attention back to the older man. "So, have you run this place for a long time?"

He nodded. "Yup, more'n fifty years. Own the funeral parlor over on Commonwealth, too." He smiled jovially, although there was still a hint of somberness in his round face and pale blue eyes. "Only things you can't avoid in life are death and taxes. I just figured I'd make some money off one of them."

That was a slightly sickening statement, but the man did have a point. Although now that Sam thought about it, he and Dean had managed to avoid both. So much for generalizations.

"Right." Sam said, attempting a smile. "Has anything…. strange happened here lately?"

The man's eyes clouded in confusion. "Strange? Not that I can recall. Usually everything's quiet, but now and then a few kids run by here, trying to scare each other with stories of ghosts or the living dead. I guess that's common for this time a year, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam said, shrugging those occurrences off; people were always fascinated with places like graveyards, where death lingered. Sam wondered if they would be so intrigued after actually having an experience with ghosts or zombies. Movies made the paranormal seem a lot more glamorous than it really was.

"Why are you asking?" The man asked suddenly, and Sam glanced back at him. "You're not one of those _believers_, are you, hunting down imaginary ghosts and stuff?" The tone of his voice indicated his intense distain of just such people.

"No," Sam said, immediately knowing what the correct answer should be. "I just heard that a lot of kids come here and play pranks on each other and things like that. And, well, if I _were_ looking for a cemetery in case the worst should happen…." He trailed off, just a hint of disapproval in his tone.

The man looked satisfied but also a little alarmed, as if afraid he'd given the wrong impression. "Oh, no, this is a lovely place, I assure you. Families have been laid to rest in this cemetery for the last…"

Sam listened quietly and then spoke to the caretaker a little while longer, asking a few more questions about recent incidents and burials. Then he shook the man's hand and walked toward where his brother stood.

"Definitely a family plot," Sam said once he'd reached him, staring down at the cold grey stone in which Allen Pollack's name was chiseled. Behind it rested Pollack's father and beside that one sat his cousin. There were more headstones of the same vein, and Sam even recognized a few of the older victims buried among them. "And there's no discoloration in the grass; no dead plants nearby." He managed to keep the smugness in his voice to a bare minimum.

Dean's look indicated that he had caught it anyway. He nodded, reluctantly. "Gravestones are intact, and none of the earth looks freshly dug." He paused for a second, glancing around at the dreary scenery, and then said, "What about the others?"

"Asked the caretaker. Apparently the two other newest victims are buried somewhere around here as well. But do you really think it's necessary to go looking for them?" Sam questioned, indicating to the large expanse of hollow ground. "What are we going to find here?"

Dean stayed silent for a moment, although Sam thought it was probably more out of mulishness than anything. Then Dean shifted on his feet and pulled his keys out of his pocket.

At the same time, something large, forceful and angry swept by Sam, shoving him roughly. He only moved a few inches but tottered a little, tall frame thrown off balance by the sudden, angry whirlwind.

Then the thing that had seemed like a raging elephant but now revealed itself to be a teenage boy stepped past Sam and planted himself at the edge of Alan's father's grave. With an angry cry and a resounding guttural sound, the boy spat on the headstone.

"_Hey!_" Dean growled immediately, grabbing the insolent teenager by the arm. Sam noticed the numerous piercings that dangled from his nose, ears, and eyebrows, and the vivid skulls decorating his shirts, ripped jeans, and shoes.

"Let me _go_!" The adolescent shouted, struggling viciously against Dean's iron-hold. Dean jerked him away from the grave and then released him, still looking incensed at the display. Dean didn't handle disrespect well.

"Robby!" A woman wearing a long coat, high heels and looking utterly exhausted ran over the sloping hill and reached the scene in seconds. "_Robby_!" She shouted again, this time making the name a curse.

"It's all his _fault_!" Robby shouted, pointing not at Dean, but at the tombstone he had just defiled.

"Robby, I've _told_ you, it was an accident! No one ever meant to—,"

"It was _his_ idea!" Robby replied, his young, rebellious face scrunched into a furious expression, hands clenched into fists. "If he hadn't thought of it, they wouldn't be dead!"

And then, with one more contemptuous look at his mother and an angry glare at Dean and Sam, Robby darted away, running towards the large, gated exit at the edge of the cemetery.

"I'm sorry," The woman panted, hand on her chest and face flushed. "He's just upset—it's the anniversary of his father's death."

Sam perked up and Dean stiffened slightly, both listening intently. "Why'd he spit on Pollack's grave?" Dean asked, voicing his question carefully, as a curious stranger would.

She shook her head wearily, her gaze still riveted to the place her son had just departed. "Robby blames him for it."

"For his dad dying?" Sam asked, careful to make his voice calm and level. He sent a glance at Dean and then returned his gaze to the woman. "Why?"

She sighed, deeply. "A long time ago, my husband and his friends played a trick that went terribly wrong. They were kids then—stupid ones. They…." She hesitated, her eyes darting to the headstones littering the floor. "It was an accident." She finished finally. "A horrible accident."

"What happened?" Sam asked timidly, afraid that he would seem too pushy but unable to stop himself from posing the question.

"They scared an old man to death—literally. He suffered a heart attack, and the paramedics arrived too late." She sighed again, a sort of bone-deep tiredness emanating from her. "My husband never forgave himself, not totally. He always bordered on the side of depression, which frequently resulted in alcoholism. He committed suicide when Robby was nine."

A surprised silence settled over them as the statement sunk in. After awhile, Dean asked, "But Robby said 'they'. Who else was he referring to?"

"All four of my husband's friends who were involved in that… incident died over the years. Joseph King was the first"—Sam shot Dean a swift look—"My husband Brian Lee was the last." She shook her head, and her eyes glassed over slightly. "It's strange… Brian was the only one to end his own life—the others died from separate tragic accidents. I guess it was just a coincidence, then, that they all passed away in October."

She shot another look toward the gate and then looked back at Sam and Dean. "Sorry again for Robby's behavior. Would you excuse me?"

"Yes, of course," Sam replied. The second the woman was out of earshot, he rounded on Dean. "This is _it_," He said quickly, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape, "This is the connection."

Dean had a similar look of surprise and burgeoning excitement. "It fits."

* * *

"Howard Bellman," Sam announced, fingers resting atop the computer keys. "He was on the list I originally looked up; I discounted him because a heart attack didn't seem like angry death material."

"Sounding a little different now, huh?" Dean asked, shifting on the bedsprings as he took apart and reassembled their preferred brand of weaponry: sawed-off shotguns, rock salt pellets, lighter fluid and a set of matches. "What's the full story?"

Sam sat in silence for a few more minutes, typing on the keyboard again. Then he answered, "There isn't one. His obituary just says that Bellman died from a heart attack on Halloween, thirty-five years ago. I'm willing to bet that the four men involved never told anyone what really happened."

"Which, if we trust this lady, is that Lee, King, Pollack and another guy—probably a relative of the third victim, Eric Donovan—used some freaky costume or decoration to scare Bellman to death."

"Exactly," Sam replied, words coming out in a hurried rush. "And if they were all as obsessed with Halloween as the recent victims were, it would explain why we originally thought that was the connection. But he's not just going after Halloween enthusiasts; he's attacking his assailants' families."

Dean grunted, re-loaded the shotgun, and then snapped the barrel back into place. "If that's true, why didn't we catch it before?"

Sam gestured for Dean to wait and then pulled up the list of victims. He'd already made written associations to the few he'd noticed were related, but now he realized that the correlation was much more widespread than that. "It didn't just go for blood relatives, Dean; it started taking out everyone. Beginning with the four who actually attacked him, and then moving on to cousins, second-cousins, wives, sons, daughters, relatives-in-law…. Some of the connections I found, but not all of them were obvious."

Dean paused in his movements and absorbed that fact for a moment. Then a look of perplexity knitted his brow. "Okay, here's the thing I don't get. The ghost is probably out for revenge, right?" At Sam's nod, Dean continued, "Then why didn't he just quit once they were all dead? And why do all the current deaths seem to be copycats of statues and decorations? Why isn't there one M.O?"

Sam sat back in his chair, eyes staring blankly into space as he pondered over that. After a few minutes of silence in which they only sounds were the renewed clicks of Dean's guns, Sam asked pensively, "What if the ghost shifted focus?"

"Huh?" Dean asked, looking mystified again.

"Like you said, Bellman was out for vengeance," Sam began, working the facts out as he went along. "What if he didn't move on after he got it? Maybe the reason he stayed behind became… altered in some way. Maybe the anger wasn't satisfied with the deaths of just those four people."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying the ghost changed its reason for sticking around? Can they even _do_ that?"

Sam's eyes focused, and he looked at Dean. "If he was furious with the thing that killed him, not just the people, but the actual _thing,_ that would be—,""

"Halloween." Dean said with dawning comprehension

"And killing people won't get rid of it. But killing people who celebrate it—,"

"Okay, and that's a great conclusion; very smart," Dean interrupted, a touch of impatience in his tone; Sam decided not to take it personally. "But why's he still bothering to go after these four families? Why not move on, broaden the hunting ground a little? There are enough freaks with fake tombstones on their front porches around here."

Sam shrugged, pulling himself out of his chair and pacing the length of the room. "Maybe he held on too hard to his original goal to let go now, but maybe it's becoming more and more diluted as the other half of his rage takes over."

"Old habits die hard," Dean commented eventually. "Even for spirits."

Sam nodded, and Dean said, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth as he tallied up the sudden wealth of facts, "So, let's get this straight. If we're right, then the spirit is attacking anyone from any of these four families every October, leading up until the thirty-first. We already have three down, so the next victim will be someone from Brian Lee's family. And the only way to find that person would be to—,"

"Figure out who lives in the area and is an avid Halloween fan, yeah."

Dean set the shotguns back on the bed, pulled a large duffle from the floor and began shoving everything they'd need for a standard salt and burn inside. "Fine. You work on finding Bellman's gravesite; I'll make some calls."

* * *

"Yes ma'am, I'm with the…Holy Hugs Church Association," Dean winced, caught Sam's amused glance, and waved him off impatiently. "I'd just like to ask whether or not you have any Halloween decorations in your front yard? We at the… Holy Hugs Church Association find this to be devil worship, and disrespectful to the general, God-fearing public—," 

Dean broke off, listening to the woman on the other end of the line. "No, I'm not one of those militant Christians trying to force everyone to think just like me," Dean replied, looking slightly alarmed. "No, I'm _not_ trying to take away your self-individuality or your right to express—," He stopped talking again and listened to her rant, this time looking a little frightened. "Yes ma'am. Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Dean quickly hung up the phone and held it away from him, as if it was tainted somehow. Sam chuckled, nose still buried in his computer.

"Dude, shut it," Dean said, shooting him a glare before turning his attention back to the phonebook spread out on one of the motel beds. He crossed her name off the list. "At least I managed to get an answer out of her."

"'The Holy Hugs Church Association?'" Sam repeated, sounding both appalled and amused.

"Best I could come up with. Not like I actually _know_ any church organizations." Dean defended flippantly, looking up another number.

"I know," Sam said, and damn if he didn't sound serious and sad now. Dean couldn't even make a _comment_ anymore without Sam turning it into something emotional.

Dean wasn't sure what the score was between him and Sammy and God, anyway. Dean's confused belief that he'd seen God's will during that case in Rhode Island hadn't left him completely, but he felt his conviction slip a little more with every bad turn their lives took. There was a part of him that wanted to believe in something higher, but in his current condition, he had to believe in the facts. And those facts were: Dean was going to Hell in little under a year, over two hundred demons were running loose in the world, and as far as he could see, there was no higher power offering to lend a hand.

But what about Dad? Where had he gone, after he'd crawled out of hell's gate?

Dean shoved these thoughts down, angry that he was digging up things he usually tried so hard to ignore. Shaking his head, he glanced down at the page and punched in the next number, listening the metallic ringing and hoping he wouldn't get another liberalist.

"Hello?"

Dean could barely hear the voice from all the staticky, jumbled noise that was suddenly blaring through the phone. There was a pause, a shuffling sound, and then a shout was heard over the din. "_Turn that down!_"

The noise suddenly ceased, and the woman sighed. "Sorry about that. Can I help you?"

Dean recognized the weary, drained voice as the women they had spoken to earlier at the cemetery. The same woman who had unwittingly filled in the missing pieces to their investigation.

"Hello," Dean said, "I'm calling from the Department of Traffic and Vehicle Safety. We've received some complaints about your Halloween decorations; apparently they're reflecting headlights and causing a dangerous distraction for drivers."

"What?" The woman, Susan Pollack questioned, sounding bemused. "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong house; we don't celebrate Halloween."

"Oh, I apologize, ma'am," Dean replied, inwardly wincing at the number of times he'd used that formal and old-fashioned term.

"No problem," Susan replied distractedly, and Dean wondered if she ever didn't sound tired. "Goodbye."

Dean bid her farewell and then snapped his phone closed, staring absently at the wall ahead of him. "I'm out."

Sam glanced up from his work. "You've called everyone? And no one is a candidate for possible attack?"

"Everyone in the phonebook. And October isn't exactly these people's favorite month," Dean replied, raising his brows. "I'm surprised the ghost found as many people as it did."

"That's something I don't get, though," Sam replied, tapping his fingers impatiently on the edge of his table. "How do they not notice that their family members are all dying?"

Dean shook his head. "One thing I've learned from his gig is, people never see what's right in front of them. They all died differently, and there's just too much doubt in a situation like this to put all the pieces together. No one really _wants_ to know the truth."

"Maybe," Sam replied, returning to his hunt for the burial site. After a few moments he said, "I've learned to deal with this burden and these secrets a long time ago. I guess I just didn't think I'd ever believe that the alternative might be worse."

"Your family's dying, and you have no way to protect them?" Dean questioned, and Sam frowned, looking troubled. Dean knew he was realizing the similarities; they had tools to destroy evil, and yet that sort of thing still occurred all the time. "It's not easy either way. These _things_—ghosts and spirits and demons—they suck."

"Yeah," Sam agreed wholeheartedly.

Dean met his brother's gaze a moment more, and then looked back at the phonebook spread out over the mattress. "Seems like his pickings are slim this year, but I doubt the spirit is gonna give up that easily. Unless he's settled before?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully. "Well, here's the thing. When the murders started, they were widespread; that is, the spirit only went after the four men who originally killed it. King was murdered first, and then each of the others followed two or three years after that. As time went on, however," Sam said, turning back to the computer screen for reference, "The attacks became more frequent; one every year, then two, then three, and so on."

"So ghostie's getting hungrier," Dean commented, "Has he worked up to four before?"

"The last two years," Sam replied straightforwardly. "Dean, I don't think it's going to give up. Bellman's out for blood—at this point I'm not sure who could be at risk."

A sudden idea blossomed in Dean's, and his heart rate sped up a little. He held up a hand for Sam to wait a minute. "If it's not being particular…" He drawled out slowly, still following his own train of thought, "That kid at the cemetery, you remember him?" he asked abruptly.

"Rebellious teenager with the holes in his face? Yeah, why?" Sam asked, clearly not following Dean's non sequitur.

"He seems…." Dean's voice became firmer as the idea solidified in his mind. "Seems like the kind of kid to have lots of freaky stuff in his room, right? Skulls, maybe. Drawings of skeletons; creepy, obscure band posters?"

Understanding lit up on Sam's face. "And you think that the ghost might…"

"If it's desperate enough; _angry_ enough—don't you think it's possible?"

"I think it's—," Sam broke off, focus suddenly back on his only _true_ love: that damn computer. He typed for a few more seconds, and then lunged for the small pad of paper sitting on the table beside him. "I know where Bellman was buried," He said, scribbling furiously.

Without hesitation, Dean ripped out the thin page from the phonebook and grabbed his jacket, the bag of weapons, and his keys. "Come on. I'll check the kid; you get the ghost."

It took fifteen minutes to drive to Susan Pollack's house, with Dean squealing the tires as he turned corners and nearly doubling the speed limit. He roared to a stop in front of the nice, tidy home, stepped out of the car, and pulled out the weathered leather bag. "Here," He said, tossing a shotgun, lighter fluid, salt, shovel and the keys to the Impala to Sam. "Go."

Sam moved around to the driver's seat, revved the car and pulled out of the neighborhood. Dean turned his attention to the two-story house, trying to get a decent glimpse of the activity inside through the windows. He tucked the sawed-off-shotgun in the back of his jeans and threw his bulky brown leather jacket over the awkward lump. Then he started up the walkway.

He hadn't prepared a lie when he'd knocked on the door, but at the look on her face when she opened it he figured he'd better come up with something convincing.

"Hi, Ms. Pollack?" Dean asked, smiling in a polite, hazy fashion that indicated he was nothing more than an innocent stranger.

"Yes?" She asked, and he could hear the slight suspicion buried under her tone.

"Didn't I run into you earlier? My son didn't damage anything of yours, did he?"

"Actually, yes," Dean replied with a lot of false confidence. "Well, not damaged, but I think he might have stolen my wallet."

Her eyebrows arched into a confused, slightly disbelieving frown. "Yours? But Robby only bumped into the man with you; the tall one. I saw the exchange while I was trying to catch up with him."

"Right," Dean amended quickly. "I meant Sam's wallet; we're on a road trip together, so we keep our money in one—," The admittedly feeble lie was cut off by a loud crash and a muffled shout.

Susan forgot Dean for a moment and hurried towards the stairs at the edge of the room. "Robby?"

There was no reply, just another harsh cry and the sound of breaking glass. Susan rushed upstairs, and Dean quickly slipped in behind her. She hastened to the closed door at the end of the hall and banged loudly on it. "Robby, open up! What are you doing in there!?"

An earsplitting scream issued then, and Dean shoved Susan out of the way. He jiggled the doorknob, and when it wouldn't budge he shoved his shoulder into the wooden frame. The door still held strong, probably kept in place by some mystical force determined to trap its victim inside. Dean took a hurried step back and raised his foot, slamming it into the space just beside the handle. The door gave under the pressure and splintered, swinging brokenly on its hinges.

The room was covered in black, and it took Dean a moment to realize that it had been painted that way. Amid drawings and life-size sculptors of skulls and other dark, disturbing things sat Robby Pollack, huddled on the ground with an old man standing above him. A very _dead_-_looking_ old man.

Dean yanked the shotgun out of his jeans, tugged on the barrel to load it, and then fired.

* * *

_Dun, dun, dun! You know the drill by now; expect more tomorrow!_


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The shotgun blast was deafening, and the second the shards of salt collided with the ghost, it vanished, leaving Dean staring down at a scared teenage boy. The silence that settled over the room in the wake of the gunfire was deafening.

After a moment, Susan pushed roughly past Dean and pulled Robby bodily off the floor, clutching him to her. Dean noticed the way her hands immediately began stroking her son's hair, lovingly and protectively, and he had to shove down the still-fresh memories of a world that didn't really exist.

"What the hell was that?" Robby asked, voice hushed and shaking, and Dean looked at him sharply. He debated with himself, but could see no other option; they had witnessed too much to brush it off now.

"Ghost," Dean said promptly. "Spirit, specter; whatever you wanna call it."

Susan detached herself from her son and took a step forward so that she stood in front of him. "What are you talking about?" She asked, her voice hard but her eyes wide inside her pale face. "There's no such thing."

"How else do you explain it, then?" Dean asked, waving his hand at the spot where the ghost had been just seconds previously. "I'd give you another explanation if I could."

"But, what…" She looked and sounded afraid now, all false bravado draining from her. "Why my son?" She cried, reaching for him again. "Why's it after my son?"

"Because a long time ago your husband killed someone," Dean said bluntly. Sam would probably have used more tact, but Dean didn't have the patience for it. "And that somebody stuck around."

"What are you talking about?" Susan said again, disbelief back on her face and accompanied by anger. "What are you _doing_ here, anyway? I think you lied; my son never stole your wallet. Get out of my house!"

Dean shook his head and took a step forward; Susan moved closer to Robby. "Look, I get that this is hard to swallow, but we don't have time for the Seven Stages of Acceptance right now, okay? You're going to have to trust me."

"Why should I?" She responded defiantly, chin tilting upward. Dean wondered why everyone always had to ask him that.

"Because if not, your son could die."

This, more than anything, seemed to reach her. She sucked in a sharp, pained breath and moved her shaking hand through her hair in a jerky, anxious motion. Then she turned toward Robby and stared at him for a moment; Dean took the time to do the same. He had removed most of his piercings and the fear on his face made him seem younger, more vulnerable than Dean had seen him thus far.

"Why?" She asked again, turning her attention back to Dean.

"It's a complicated story," Dean said, waving her off as he began to move around the room. He stopped at a plastic rendering of a skull with two long, slender swords shoved through the cranium. The two blades crisscrossed and emerged on opposite sides to form an X. Dean wondered if this was the rendition the ghost had been planning on using. He shook his head and took a few steps forward, still looking around.

"What are you doing?" Susan asked, her voice shaky but gaining strength.

"Research," Dean replied, turning back toward the pair. "Stay here for a minute."

"Wait, where are you going?" Susan questioned as he moved toward the door, a look of confusion flitting across her face.

"For protection," Dean replied, a little impatiently. "That thing'll be back, and it'll want Robby."

He left the room, moving as quickly as he could in case the ghost decided to make his reappearance during Dean's temporary absence. He went outside and grabbed the bag he'd left by the doorstep. Then he stepped through the doorway again headed upstairs.

Susan had her head bent close to Robby's and was talking hurriedly in a low voice. Dean cleared his throat and the two looked up at him. He pulled out the canister of salt.

"What's that for?" Robby asked, the first time he'd spoken since he'd posed the question about the ghost.

"Wards off spirits," Dean replied, lifting the tab and walking towards the two in the center of the room. "Hold still."

Robby looked confused, but complied, and Dean began tracing a ring of salt around the place where he stood. He finished and stood upright again, examining the circle for signs of broken links.

"As long as you stay in this, you'll be okay. It won't be able to cross the line," Dean explained carefully, gesturing toward the salt.

"But what will you do to get rid of it?" Robby asked, shaking himself from his mother's grasp as he did so.

"Salt and burn the bones," Dean replied promptly, figuring he might as well go all the way with it.

"So why aren't you _doing_ that?"

"You remember the guy you rammed into earlier today at the cemetery, right?" Dean asked, eyebrow raised at the kid's suddenly insolent tone. "He's working on it."

Robby smirked suddenly, a mocking and almost cruel twisting of his lips, and Dean found himself taking a disliking him. "Are you two—?"

"Brothers," Dean interrupted, glaring fiercely. "We're brothers."

"Sure."

"Dude, you want me to leave?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms. "'Cause if I drop this right now, you'll be stuck sitting in that circle forever." Or until the end of the month, but why split hairs?

"Robert, stop it right now," Susan said, her voice foreboding and superior; clearly she was a mother who'd had to deal with rebelliousness before. Robby glanced at her, impertinence shining on his face, but he didn't say anything else. "He's not a bad kid," Susan continued, shooting her son another stern look. "But since his father…. Well, it hasn't been easy for him."

"Yeah," Dean said after a moment, glancing at Robby. "I get that."

"Why, did your dad die, too? Did _he_ kill himself when you were a kid?" The coarse, mocking way he posed the question didn't hide the pain underneath it.

"No," Dean replied, as mildly as he could manage. "My dad died to save me. And I was an ass about it for awhile, too."

Robby looked slightly taken aback. After a few moments' ringing silence he said, "That kinda sucks."

Dean shrugged and started draining the salt around the edges of the room. "As long as we can wait—,"

The lights began to flicker and a chill crept into the room, turning Dean's breath into fog. He tensed and raised his shotgun. Robby was safe in the ring of salt, but Dean hadn't managed to block off the entire room.

Then he was thrown off his feet and hurled into the wall on the opposite side of the room. He fell to the ground with a crash and a tangle of limbs, shotgun clattering to the floor.

A man, ghostly pale and wearing tattered clothing materialized in the center of the room. Were it not for the dim, milky cast of his eyes and the blurred lines around the edges that suggested he was not quite real, he would have seemed alive.

"Forty years," He croaked, his voice cracked and broken as if it hadn't been used in decades. "Forty years I lived in that house, dealing with hooligans bent on scaring the wits out of everyone. _Forty years_."

"Alright, we get it," Dean said gruffly, still recovering from colliding headfirst into the wall. He glanced to where the gun sat, just out of reach. The ghost rounded on him, looking almost surprised.

"Every year!" The ghost's voice was deafening. "Every year I had to deal with this godforsaken excuse for a holiday! And then _those_ kids showed up and _they_ killed me! They surrounded and my heart—my heart exploded…" His voice faded into cracked nothingness at the memory of the fatal heart attack, and there was a moment of silence. Then the spirit faced Robby again.

"And you!" He shouted, deluded rage flickering through his broken syllables. "You put up these things, these horrid decorations like it's acceptable to mock the dead! But I'll have my revenge. I've had it once—and again and again…" The madness of his soul was revealed then, the way his being had been twisted and warped into something heartless after years and years of obsessed fury.

The ghost raised its gnarled, insipid hand and a pair of swords began to fashion themselves midair, hanging weightlessly as if they were some gruesome illusion. At that moment, the window near Dean sprang open, and a sudden breeze whirled the air—the grains of salt began to quake and scatter. Dean realized the spirit's intent and lunged for the shotgun; the newly created blades pointed in his direction, but he quickly loaded and pulled the trigger.

Again the ghost disappeared in a swirl of dust and shrieks, leaving the room silent once more.

"Dammit, Sammy," Dean grumbled, eyes still scanning for signs of reappearance. "Hurry up."

* * *

Sam jammed the shovel into the ground, stomped hard on the edge, and then lifted the dirt away. He paused to wipe the sweat beading his brow, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated rate. This digging-up-the-body thing was a little harder solo. 

He shrugged that thought off, knowing that it would lead to other, much less pleasant ideas, and shoved the spade into the ground once more. He was about a third of the way there—not bad work in fifteen minutes—but he had no idea what was going on at Dean's end and it didn't feel fast enough.

He continued with his repetitive task for another fifteen minutes or so, making a decent dent in the once-smooth ground. He kept a wary eye out for any onlookers, because digging up a grave in the dead of night was a hard thing to explain. The wind blew through the trees as he worked, cooling his fevered skin a little. It would have been almost peaceful if he didn't feel a steady tug of urgency with every clump of dirt.

As he jammed the point of the shovel into the ground again, his cell phone began to vibrate. Momentarily stalling in his work, he pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open.

"Dude, you about done?" Dean asked curtly.

"Still digging," Sam replied, holding to phone to his ear with his shoulder and beginning to work again. "Things not going well over there?"

"Things been here twice in the last thirty minutes and the kid—," A shout cut through Dean's words and Sam heard a muffled scuffle break out on the other end. After a few more yells and the distinctive blast of Dean's shotgun, Dean returned to the phone. "Make that three. Man, we gotta salt and burn this son of a bitch. I bet the neighbor's are already freaking out. That's the third shot so far."

Sam paused and shifted nervously, disliking that idea.

"Don't worry, I'll handle it," Dean broke into his thoughts, and Sam shook his head even though he knew Dean couldn't see it. "Just get it done, alright?"

"I'm trying, Dean," Sam grunted.

"Try a little harder," Dean replied. A retort rested on his lips, but Sam could hear the anxiousness in Dean's voice and he decided not to push.

"Yeah, alright," He said instead. Then he flipped the phone closed and gripped the shovel more firmly in his hands.

* * *

"Why won't it just give up?" Robby asked, his voice trembling a little despite his valiant attempt to muster up some anger. 

"Because it doesn't think like that," Dean replied as he replaced the salt-lines again. He glanced at the kid and found him looking both mystified and defiant. Dean resisted the urge to sigh. "Ghosts stay behind for a reason, and they can't just _let go_ of that reason. Well, I guess they can, but most of them don't."

There had been exceptions to the rule, but Dean had only seen a handful.

"So, it really exists, doesn't it?" Robby asked faintly, and all trace of the obstinate kid he'd been an hour ago was gone.

"Unfortunately, yeah." Dena shifted uncomfortably; disillusioning people was never an enjoyable task, but Dean really hated ripping that innocence away from the young.

Then again, Robby's father had apparently killed himself when Robby was nine. It had probably been the ghost's work, but the depression and alcoholism weren't, at least not directly, and Robby had had to live with all of that for a long time. Maybe he hadn't had that innocence to begin with.

"But once you get rid of this thing, once you… salt the bones and burn them and everything, it'll be over?" There was hope in his tone, and it was strange to hear. Hope wasn't something they ran across very often.

"Yeah, it'll be over." Dean stayed quiet after that, wanting the conversation to end there.

"But there are other things, right? Things like this?"

Dean checked the number of rounds left in his shotgun and didn't answer. If Dean told the truth, the kid would probably flip out. If Dean lied, the kid would know he was lying and get angry—and then flip out.

"Yeah," Dean said finally, almost unwillingly. "There are other things out there."

Robby nodded slowly, as if he had already come to that conclusion himself. "What can I do to… to protect my mom and me?" He asked. He sounded determined, and Dean was impressed.

"Salt," Dean said promptly, holding up the canister. "Always have a lot of salt. Make trails of it around yours and your mom's rooms if you want. And don't go out late at night, that's never a good idea. If the lights flicker, know something's up. Just be careful, mainly. And don't piss people off."

"Is this what you do?" He asked, and suddenly his eyes had a strange light in them. "Go around finding these things? Hunting them?"

"Yeah," Dean said, slightly wary at Robby's look. "My brother and I, we—,"

"Do a lot of people do that? Can I?" His entire face was alight now, almost hungry.

Warning bells went off in Dean's head. "Hey, slow down. You really don't wanna—,"

"Why not?" Robby asked, standing suddenly from his cross-legged position on the floor in the center of the salt-ring. "You do it, don't you? That thing, it must have killed my dad! It makes sense; he didn't commit suicide at all! I want to get back at it, I want—,"

"Revenge?" Dean asked, his voice rising to battle with Robby's increasingly fevered tone. "It doesn't work like that. You think it'll make you feel better, but it won't. It never does. Trust me kid, you don't want this."

Robby looked slightly taken aback, his face losing a little bit of that twisted eagerness. "Why not? I don't want this, either." He gestured around his room and to the house beyond it. "Do you even know how hard it is, living in the same house that your father died in? In the same town, with the same people he knew? I hate it. I hate it more and more every day."

Dean was tempted to scoff at this new burst of teenage angst, but he knew that there was a much deeper issue here. And if he didn't find a way to shut this down now, Robby would end up living a life he would hate much more than his current one.

"You have a mother who loves you," Dean said carefully, gesturing to the door Susan had exited just minutes ago to answer the phone. "You have a home and people who know you. You have a family. Don't be so quick to throw it all away." He shook his head when Robby moved to interrupt. "Look, kid. I've got a car, a brother and my job. That's it. Without them, I got nothing. And I've been doing this a long time, so believe me when I say you don't want it." He glanced toward the doorway again. "Just keep yourself and your mom safe. Be aware. But don't go looking for trouble."

Robby stared at him silently, face slack and eyes blank. Dean found the expression kind of amusing; Sam pulled the same one from time to time. "Who was it?" Robby asked, taking Dean by surprise.

"What?"

"You said revenge doesn't help. You sounded like you knew." He continued looking at Dean and damn, he was a sharp kid. "Who died?"

Dean shuffled through the bag of supplies at his feet, checking the amount of salt and extra rounds for his shotgun. Without pausing or looking up he said, "My mom."

And dad, eventually. And brother. Vengeance and darkness had touched every part of his life at some point.

A knocking sound echoed up the stairs, and a moment later Susan appeared at the door, looking haggard. "I tried to explain," She panted, pointed downstairs toward the phone she'd been using a few minutes before. "I tried to explain the gunshots, but not all of the neighbors called me and some of them,"

"What happened?" Dean asked, alert and slightly alarmed.

"There's a police car outside. They're at the door now."

* * *


	7. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Little later than usual; happy Halloween, everyone! Hope you enjoy the final chapter of this story!_

**Chapter 6**

Susan Pollack was at a loss. Her son was in danger from something that should only exist in scary stories, she had let a stranger with a dangerous weapon enter her home, and now the police were knocking on her door. She had no idea where to go from here, and felt so out of depth it made her head spin.

The man who had introduced himself as Dean during one of the quieter moments in the last few hours was now cursing low under his breath, and she was tempted to tell him the watch his vulgarity in front of her son. It was probably a lost cause with a troubled boy like Robby, but it was a mother's instinct.

"What should I do?" She prompted when Dean didn't speak and the police knocked more insistently on the door.

"Okay," He said slowly, and the way his eyes darted from side to side indicated he was doing some very quick thinking. The doorbell sounded once, and then again and again. "Think you can act natural?"

She took in a shaky breath, clenching her hands together to stop them from trembling. "I have to lie about all of this, don't I?"

"Yeah."

She shook her head and looked at him beseechingly. "Can't you come downstairs and explain—,"

"No," He answered curtly. "You have to make them go away, alright?"

She felt a flicker of annoyance that the young ruffian was ordering her around in her own home. But then again, she didn't know how to deal with this type of situation and it was almost comforting to have someone else take charge.

She nodded once and then hurried downstairs to the front door, pulling it open just as one of the officers raised his hand to knock again. She recognized both of them and smiled graciously.

"Adam," She greeted the younger of the two, who wasn't a day over twenty-five. "Good to see you. How's your father doing?"

He smiled uncertainly, looking slightly nervous. "Better, thank you, Ms. Pollack. Doctors say he should be home in a few days."

"Well, that must be good news for your mother," Susan replied, still seeking to distract him. "I know she nearly went crazy with worry when he had that heart attack."

The older officer, Eugene, cleared his throat noticeably and glanced at Adam. The younger man flushed and looked down at his boots.

"We've had several reports of gunfire in the last hour, Susan," Eugene said, his voice polite but professional. "Everything okay here?"

Her hands flicked nervously up to her hair, smoothing it away from her face. "Really?" She asked, swallowing hard. Lying had never been her strong suit.

"Yes," Eugene replied, and his eyes narrowed. "And they apparently originated from this location. Have you heard anything unusual?"

"No," She answered, maybe a little too quickly. She placed her hands in her pockets to still their movement and then attempted a smile. "Nothing at all."

Adam opened his mouth to say something, but a loud thump echoed through the house, seemingly deriving from upstairs. Susan's gaze flew to the ceiling and a startled gasp passed her lips before she could stop it. Eugene looked from her, to the direction the noise had come from and back again. Suspicion tightened the lines of his weathered face.

"What was—," Adam began, looking puzzled, but Eugene waved him off and the younger man quieted immediately.

"Mind if we look upstairs, Susan?" Eugene asked, and her heart fluttered in panic. If she said no she would only raise more suspicion, but if she said yes….

"Ms. Pollack?" Adam prompted after a look at his older, more experienced partner.

"Yes, of course," Susan replied, hoping she didn't sound quite as breathless as she felt. She led slowly them up the stairs, stomping a little loudly in what she hoped would be interpreted as a warning. She knew little about this Dean, but she wanted her son safe and he seemed to be the only one capable of protecting him.

She knocked once, hesitantly, on Robby's closed door. There was shuffling inside, and then Robby called, "Come in!"

Susan pushed the door open and stepped inside, moving forward enough so that the two men could enter behind her. The room looked….normal. Well, it never looked normal with Robby's strange taste in decoration, but there was nothing inconspicuous about it. No ring of salt on the floor, no materializing ghost, no tall, handsome stranger with a shotgun.

"What?" Robby asked, looking annoyed and completely at ease. What she lacked in acting skills Robby had in spades.

"Someone reported gunshots coming from this house," Susan said, as casually as she could manage. "Do you know anything about that?"

Robby looked surprised. "No, I haven't heard anything."

Eugene glanced from Susan to Robby and then began walking casually around the room. "Really? Then why have all your neighbors?"

Robby hoisted an expression of innocent confusion on his face. It looked real. "I don't know. But I did have my music on earlier, so maybe I didn't hear them."

Susan almost smiled at this; the police had responded numerous times to Robby's too-loud stereo.

Adam stood awkwardly in the doorway, but Eugene continued to circle the room. He fingered the floor-length drapes adorning the window and then shifted his eyes toward the closet, which stood open, messy and obviously empty. Then he noticed the splinters of plaster and the large dent in the opposite wall.

"Susan," He said, turning back to her with shrewd eyes. "Did something happen here? Something you're not telling us?"

She shook her head quickly. "No, of course not. Right Robby?"

"Everything's peachy." Her son replied.

"No break-ins or anything? No one was here who shouldn't have been?" He looked unconvinced and disbelieving still.

"No," She and Robby said at the same time.

He could tell something wasn't quite right, she knew. But she also knew that Eugene had no other reason to investigate further, and sure enough, he soon turned back toward the door and his young partner.

"Call us if you have any problems?" He said as she walked them to the front door.

"Yes, of course," She said, smiling tightly. "Thank you, gentlemen."

Once she'd closed the door on them, she rushed back up the stairs.

"They're gone?" Robby asked the second she reentered his room. At her nod, he rolled her eyes and slouched exaggeratedly. "Jeez, mom, you almost ruined it."

"Lucky for me my son's a good liar," She said, a reprimand hidden in her words.

He sighed dramatically; apparently their little game of charades had put him in a slightly more upbeat mood. "Save the day and I _still_ get in trouble."

She ignored his comment. "Where is he?"

The question became pointless a second later, however, when the window slid open.

"Great job with the cops," Dean said sardonically while he climbed through the small rectangular opening. He must have been balancing on the roof that bordered the window; luckily it faced the back of the house. Robby laughed.

"Come on," Dean said once he'd pulled himself easily to his feet and grabbing the canister of salt. "We need to—,"

Susan's breath suddenly condensed into billowing white plumes. She shivered and then opened her mouth in horror as a figure began to appear beside Robby. It solidified just as Dean lunged forward and Susan let out a shout of warning.

Then the ghost stopped, stared into space as though not even seeing its surroundings, and vanished again. Susan looked around, tense and alert, expecting it to reappear somewhere else. When it didn't, she looked toward Dean.

"Did you…?"

"No," He interrupted, staring absently into space. Then his face hardened, and she almost thought she saw a flash of fear. "Sam."

* * *

Sam dusted away the last grains of dirt and took a moment to prepare himself. Then he pried the lid open and held his breath, experienced by now with the dank, putrid air that released itself from a coffin after years of confinement. He looked down at the remains, which were nothing more than crumbling bones covered in tattered clothing.

He'd expected a small amount of nausea, which he always felt no matter how many times he'd done this. He was surprised, however, when the disgusted, sick feeling didn't come. Maybe he'd gotten used to death and decay, after all.

He placed his hands on the ground surrounding the square pit he'd dug and then pulled himself out. After taking a moment to catch his breath—that was record digging he'd done—Sam pulled out the salt and lighter fluid. He doused the corpse with the gritty white granules and then began applying liberal amounts of the flammable liquid.

He reached for the box of matches, and was flying through the air and crashing into a headstone before he'd realized what had occurred. His head hit on one of the polished stones with a resounding crack and went momentarily cross-eyed. Blood, sticky and thick, oozed down his temple

He blinked rapidly to clear his double vision and paid dearly for the hesitance; the ghost sent him rocketing backwards again, straight into another net of tombstones. This time he hit his shoulder, hard enough to make him shout out.

He rolled onto his stomach and ducked behind a large statue of an angel, eying the matches sitting at the edge of the grave that was now a good ten feet away. He cast a glance at the ghost, who looked like a crotchety old man except for the way his body flickered in and out of existence, and then edged toward the open grave.

Bellman moved quickly and eerily in that impossible way ghosts moved, and in the next second he was upon Sam again. Sam lurched to his feet and dodged around the ghost, but he didn't make it far before his feet were thrown out from under him again. He fell against yet another cold, gray stone, hitting the same shoulder he'd injured before.

He grit his teeth against the pain and rolled to his feet.

"This is getting _really_ old," He grumbled under his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet and clenching his hands into fists. He marked the ghost's position, noted that it was staring strangely into space with its hands held outward, and then made another break for it.

He reached the grave and skidded to a halt, landing on his knees and grabbing the trusty packet of matches. He fumbled with the paper flap, pulled out one of the matchsticks, and struck it against the rough patch on the back of the box. With a burst of light, the fire caught and then dwindled into a small flame.

Before he could celebrate the victory or even drop the match into the grave, however, something caught him from behind and jerked him backwards. What felt like thick, knotted rope wrapped itself around his neck, and he clawed at the cord that was now cutting off his breathing. He wheezed desperately, struggling to draw air past the steadily increasing pressure on his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his shotgun, which was perched next to his other supplies at the edge of the grave. He threw an arm out, one hand scrabbling to grip the handle of the weapon while the other still yanked at the rope around his neck. He felt his fingers brush the gun and push it forward a little, so that it was suspended more precariously over the edge of the deep hole. Carefully as he could manage in his frantic, choked state, Sam put more concentration into it and nimbly wrapped his fingers around the base.

He let his fingers fall from the rope and gripped the shotgun firmly with both hands. Still struggling to draw breath, Sam cocked the gun with one hand and then pointed at random behind him, stretching one arm out and pulling the trigger. The rope around his neck slackened a bit and he pulled in a huge, gaping breath. Then he loaded the gun, held it out, and fired again at a new angle.

This time the pressure on his neck decreased completely, enough for Sam to stumble toward the set of matches. With shaking fingers, he managed to get one lit and then dropped it, without preamble, into the grave. Bright orange flames engulfed the body within, and a scream scraped through the air. Then it cut off abruptly, leaving the night still and strangely silent.

Sam collapsed on his back, eyes drifting closed as he continued to suck in air, his throat scratchy and raw. His last thought, as if drifted into a state of unconsciousness, was one of incredulous exasperation that he was always the one to get choked.

"Sam? Sammy!"

Sam jerked awake, eyes opening just as careful hands fumbled to remove the rope that still dangled loosely around his neck. He looked up at Dean, whose eyes were, for the first time in months, expressing all the emotions he was feeling—which ranged from worry to anger to concern.

Dean tossed the cord aside and then rested his hands cautiously, almost gently, on either side of Sam's neck; he also began speaking quietly. Sam blinked slowly, still coming back to himself.

Then he sat up, and the moment was broken. Dean moved his fingers away and shifted back, and Sam tried to shake himself out of his daze. He glanced around and noticed two people standing not so far away, hidden by shadows but still easily identifiable.

"Hitch a ride?" Sam asked, and then regretted it when his voice crackled and broke.

The corners of Dean's eyes wrinkled, but he shrugged nonchalantly. "Had to drive a minivan to get here, so be grateful. Last time you _ever_ get the car."

"Dude, you were late," Sam said, gesturing to the already roasted corpse.

Dean shrugged again, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Guess you can take care of yourself."

Sam raised his eyebrows and chuckled hoarsely. Then he stopped because the action hurt. "About time you realized it."

Dean shot him a look, and Sam knew that Dean hadn't realized anything. And the next time this happened, Dean would probably use any means necessary to reach him. Even if that meant driving a minivan.

* * *

_Epilogue tomorrow..._


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"This should be fun."

"It'll only take a second, Dean."

Dean shot him a look, but Sam was saved from further arguments when the door in front of them opened. He almost grimaced at the wave of emotions that seemed to flit over Margaret's face; suspicion and anger flashed immediately into her eyes when she caught sight of them, but both slowly melted away into a mixture of confusion and uncertainty. Sam cleared his throat.

"Yes?" She asked, and her voice sounded a little strange. She was on the edge, he knew; she couldn't decide whether or not she trusted them, but she didn't exactly hate them either. The latter made things a little easier.

"We just wanted to tell you…" He hesitated at Dean's glance, but continued after a moment, "We just wanted to let you know that we took care of everything."

"Took care of—," The confusion drifted away from her voice and her mouth dropped open in surprise. "You took care of—you mean the person who—?"

"Killed your husband, yes," Sam replied simply. Dean nodded once, briefly, to show his approval.

Margaret looked nervous now. "You didn't—I mean…."

Sam understood the fearful hesitance in her voice and hurriedly shook his head. "No, we didn't kill anyone." Nothing human, anyway.

She stayed quiet for a little while, and Sam could imagine what she was thinking. There were holes in their story, large, gaping ones, and she was probably wondering whether or not she wanted them filled. He hoped for her sake that she didn't; sometimes staying in the dark was better than finding out the truth.

She was looking at them now, studying them carefully. Her eyes roved over Sam, and he struggled not to squirm as they lingered on the bandaged cut on his temple and the angry-looking welts on his neck. Then she switched her gaze to Dean, who stood his ground and met her eyes squarely.

"Who are—?" She broke off abruptly, her mouth snapping shut. She shook her head, and Sam knew that her desire to leave this entire ordeal behind her had won out over her curiosity. He relaxed, feeling relieved.

"You're sure it's over?" She asked instead, and her voice was weary, tired.

Sam smiled genuinely. "It's over."

She nodded absently and stayed quiet for a second, clearly lost in her thoughts. Then she looked up again. "Thank you," It was quiet, tentative, but that didn't make it any less significant. "I'm not sure what you did, but I… just, thank you. Both of you." She added with a look at Dean.

Sam saw his brother's face soften just a little and fought the urge to smile. "You're welcome," he replied easily.

"What now?" She asked, staring at them both.

"Now, we leave," Dean spoke up for the first time, and his voice wasn't as curt as Sam had expected.

She paused for a second at that. Then she spoke, and her voice was certain. "I won't see you two again, will I?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

She stepped back into the house and gripped the doorknob, her expression kind and a little sad. "Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye, Margaret."

Once she'd closed the door on them, permanently this time, Sam and Dean turned around and walked to the car.

"Think she'll be alright?" Sam asked as Dean drove away from the neat, manicured house.

"She seemed strong," Dean said after a moment, which wasn't really an answer.

"Still, losing someone like that…." He expelled a long breath and shook his head, glancing down at his hands.

"She'll move on," Dean said shortly, hands tapping on the wheel. "She has to."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Like you had to?"

Dean didn't look at him, but Sam saw the muscles in jaw clench. His brother stayed quiet, and Sam matched his silence, knowing that if he spoke now, Dean would pull him off-topic and they'd never discuss it again.

"We've already talked about this," Dean replied through his tightly gritted teeth. "Don't start, Sam."

Sam felt boiling anger sizzle through his veins, and he struggled to shove it down. He wasn't all that successful, but his voice was mostly calm when he said, "I've made a decision, Dean."

Dean cast him a glance, eyebrows furrowed and eyes hard. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?" He asked, voice mocking, almost rough.

Again Sam shoved at the anger struggling under the surface. "I'm not quitting. I won't."

Dean had every appearance of fighting a losing battle with his own temper. And then, all at once it exploded from him like a volcano. "Do you even get what I told you, Sam? You'll _die_! No, it's _not_ happening."

"You can't just expect me to just let it go!" Sam was shouting without realizing it, his anger and frustration at his brother for being so blind and stupid and _sacrificial _spilling over the edge. "This is you, burning in Hell forever!"

"And there's no way I'm letting you get yourself killed because you—,"

"And why is that so different, Dean!" Sam demanded, and he saw the abrupt surprise on Dean's face. "Why is that so different from what you did? You sold your soul for me, and you won't let me try to save you because I might die for you just like you're going to die for me. Do you even get how twisted and screwed up and _wrong_ that is?"

"I know!" Dean exploded, and Sam briefly regretted the fact that this had turned into a shouting match. "I know it doesn't make sense, alright! I can't explain it, so don't ask me to." He breathed deeply, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. "I just…. I couldn't let you die then, and I can't now."

"Did you ever think of how I would feel about this?" Sam asked, lowering his voice in response to Dean's less confrontational tone. Dean stayed silent, but Sam knew his answer anyway. "You didn't. But I'm telling you, I can't let this go anymore than you can."

It was sick, the way it seemed to boil down to one or the other. If Sam lived, Dean would die, and vise versa. They had somehow been put on opposite sides; brothers competing to see who would sacrifice himself for the other. Because Sam would die for Dean, if that's what it took. He'd thought about it constantly since Dean had revealed that particular secret, and Sam had come to one conclusion. He would work to find a way out of it, a way that they could both defy the odds and stay alive. But if he didn't… if he didn't, then he was willing to die.

And that made him just as selfish—or selfless—as Dean.

"I'm older," Dean grunted finally, and Sam hated how that longstanding reason—in terms of arguments, privileges, everything—could be used for something like this.

Sam had it on the tip of his tongue. He had reasons, rationalizations, and a hundred different ways that Dean was being stupid about this whole thing. But as he stared at his brother, whose face was pinched and drawn and whose eyes were shadowed, he gave in. He'd come to this conclusion before, and he knew that it still held true: Dean couldn't be convinced otherwise.

But as Sam he stared at his brother's bleak profile, he knew that he wouldn't stop trying to find a way. He couldn't. He would just have to get a little… sneakier, was all.

"Okay, Dean," He said after a moment, slouching back into his seat. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "I'll let it go."

- **Fin**

* * *

_A/N: And, that's it! I apologize for not getting it up sooner; life got a little hectic and I didn't get the chance to type it out. Hope you enjoyed this story! Thanks to everyone who stuck with it!_


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